


It Can Be That Easy

by gemini_melia



Series: Old Habits/New Ways [2]
Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemini_melia/pseuds/gemini_melia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6215254">Standing at the Edge</a>. Jesse thinks Saul deserves a free pass weekend to properly grieve his brother’s death. Saul’s not about to turn down a weekend alone with Jesse Pinkman. Minor canon divergence set during “Fifty-One” (Season 5, Episode 4).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday

“What are you doing tonight?” Jesse had said. It’s ringing in Saul’s ears like a snippet from a dream, like maybe he’s made it up. But Jesse is still on the other end of the line and he’s waiting for a response. Saul’s feeling a bit off balance from the day’s events, so all he manages to say is, “What are you thinking?”

Jesse is quiet for a few moments and Saul thinks that asking him that may have been a mistake, that Jesse’s about to deny any motivation beyond banal small talk. But Jesse Pinkman doesn’t do small talk. He doesn’t do nice—he just says what he’s thinking. Saul finds his thoughts drawn back to Kim, and he wonders when it was that he’d developed a type for the straight talkers, a type that somehow envelops both Kim Wexler and Jesse Pinkman.

“The other night,” Jesse begins. “After the phone call, when you were in, like, zombie mode or whatever, you were headed to your place, right? That’s where you were driving us?”

“I'm gonna go ahead and plead the fifth here, kid,” Saul quips, because unlike Jesse or Kim, he’s not a straight talker. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, especially when what he’s thinking is, _Yes, all I wanted in that moment was to hide away at home, forgetting myself with you._ Because that thought, while terrifying at the time, is one he’s warmed up to, one that he could get used to thinking without feeling like his world is about to collapse around him.

On the other end of the line, Jesse huffs an impatient sigh. “No look, man. I'm just saying, like… You get a free pass when this shit happens, y’know? Like, no one’s allowed to judge you. I mean, when my Aunt Ginny died I'm pretty sure I was high for a week straight. Like, ordered everything off the menu at the Chinese place down the block and just, like, did my thing. That's how I got through it, so I'm just saying if there's something you wanna do then, like, that's cool.”

Saul has no idea what Jesse is saying. Wait, “Are you offering me pity sex?”

“Fine, be a dick about it.”

“I’m just saying, it kind of sounds like pity sex is on the table.”

“If you’re just gonna rag on me, then it’s back off the table.”

“No, no, no ragging—just listening.” Saul spreads his hands out and waves them in a _please continue_ motion, even though Jesse is miles away and can’t see him.

Jesse sighs again. “I got the weekend free. It’s Mr. White’s birthday so he’s, like, spending it with his family or whatever.”

“Meth-free birthday, solid choice.”

“So what do you think?” Jesse plows through the beginning of Saul’s ramblings, and that brings Saul up short. Because Jesse’s seriously asking him. Well, Saul _thinks_ what he’s hearing is an offer of a full weekend of sex at Saul’s place, and that turns his insides into a fucking spin cycle. Because they’ve never spent time together in one of their homes—hell, Saul’s office is risky enough—and that’s just asking for trouble. But if Walt’s away, doing his duty as paterfamilias, then maybe they’re onto something.

The image of Jesse just taking up space in his condo is enough to send a spike of warmth down his spine to pool low in his stomach. And Saul realizes that they’ve been dancing around this long enough. If Jesse has manned up enough to ask the question, then Saul’s not going to stand in the way.

“A free pass from you, kid? How could I say no?”

* * *

When Jesse has thought about what sort of place Saul calls home, he always draws a blank—it’s hard for him to picture Saul anywhere outside his office, like he sleeps on the sofa or something. But the address Saul had given him made Jesse doubletake — it’s in the heart of downtown, among the ritziest restaurants and douchiest clubs — a far fucking cry from the office. Saul had directed him to park in the garage, telling him that the attendant will be expecting him, and sure enough when Jesse pulls up and tells the old dude in the booth the apartment number, he’s let in without even a questionable look.

The garage is clean and brightly lit — nothing like the dark and deserted ones they’ve taken to parking in on their off time. He sees Saul’s Cadillac and parks directly next to it in a space marked “Visitor” before climbing out and entering the building through a side door that leads to an anteroom. 

For the first time in these dealings with Saul, Jesse is glad he went with the plain black hoodie and had left his beanie in the car, because just standing in the marble floored lobby, with its sleek leather armchairs, thick carpets, and pervasive muzak makes him feel like a goddamned street urchin. At least Saul and his eye-burning suits can pull it off as a unique choice of formal wear. Jesse stealthily eyes his sneakers and the floor he’s just walked across and is relieved to see that he hasn’t left any fucking honest to god dirty footprints in his wake.

There’s a man standing by the main doors at the other end of the lobby. He’s dressed in a slick uniform — probably some fancy security, Jesse thinks. He’s speaking quietly to a woman in a long white coat. She laughs at something the man says before walking across the lobby, heels clacking against the floor loudly. Jesse jabs at the elevator button, anxious about having a bunch of bougie eyes on him, like they’re wondering which unit he’s about to rob. He clenches his fists, forcing himself to stand tall, unhunching his shoulders, and cracking the stiffness out of his neck.

* * *

As soon as Saul hangs up the phone, he guns the ignition of his Cadillac and heads out onto the road, away from Kim, talk of Chuck, and the memories the day has dredged up. Now his mind shifts to the present, to the punk ass kid he’s just invited to his home, and it dawns on him that it’s been a long time since he’s had a planned guest in his home. He thinks back over the last several months, and realizes that, aside from the maid who comes by once a week and the dry cleaning pick-up guy, there’s only been one drunken hookup with a woman who was strangely obsessed with his hair, and who Saul was more than glad to see the back of come morning.

He feels a prickle at his shoulder blades, a sense of self-consciousness he hasn’t felt in years. As he parks his car in the garage and makes his way through the lobby, he realizes that a place like this is sure to put Jesse on edge — it would have put him on edge, too, if it weren’t for his long-practiced ability to hold his head high and convince everyone around him without a word, that he belonged there. He’s grateful now for the privacy that offers him, a sense of anonymity that comes with the vaguest of recognition that deems him just safe enough. You don’t often have nosey neighbors when they’re also busy hiding what’s behind their doors.

As he unlocks the front door and steps into his foyer, Saul casts a more critical glance around his condo. He thinks the open floor layout and large windows makes it look modern and inviting, and hopefully the decor is low key enough to put Jesse at ease. Saul’s decorating ability never really extended beyond his sartorial flair, so what he’s ended up with is a combination of the corporate housing style he’d gotten used to, some added details with help from Francesca, and his own pathetic sentiment surrounding the life he’d built with Kim, however short-lived. He had Fran to thank for the kitchen — practically pulled from the pages of William-Sonoma, but at a fraction of the price. The film posters in the living room were his true weakness — a small blind spot for Kim that he held onto — not the healthiest decision he’s ever made.

Before he can do more than survey the contents of his fridge and make a mental note that they’ll need to order out for dinner, the doorbell is ringing and he’s opening the door to a sheepish Jesse Pinkman.

* * *

When Saul lets Jesse in, it’s with a little flourish of his wrist in the general direction of the foyer and a cheeseball smile on his face that tells Jesse he’s actually nervous underneath. Jesse steps inside without a word, but gives Saul a once over with a small smirk when he sees that the dude’s dressed in a bizarrely normal suit — black jacket, white shirt, and not a flashy color in sight.

At Jesse’s look Saul holds out his hands and scoffs. “What do you want from me, kid? I was at a funeral, for Christ’s sake.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Saul grumbles. He closes the door and Jesse follows him through the foyer and into the apartment’s open floor plan.

“Well, welcome to my abode,” Saul says, holding out his arms, gesturing to the space around them. “My domicile, my castle, if you will.”

Jesse nods vaguely and looks around. “It’s...pretty sweet, dude.”

Saul shrugs a bit and wanders toward the kitchen toward the sink. Over his shoulder, he asks, “You want something to drink?” 

“Nah, I’m good.”

Jesse can’t help being distracted by his surroundings. The apartment is like something out of a magazine — full length windows wrap around the outside, and Jesse vaguely feels like they’re floating up here, six floor up. He’s not sure what he expected — maybe some garish extension of Saul’s office, and Jesse’s still betting money on there being a shag rug around here somewhere.

But what he sees instead is a strange mix of modern and classic. The kitchen is in the center, and it’s as up to date as anything Jesse’s seen on Food Network — all stainless steel appliances and marble countertops. Off to the right is the living area, which, even with its walls of windows, feels warmer. The sofa is a dark brown sectional, the softest looking leather Jesse’s ever seen, and there’s a boxy fireplace in the corner that doesn’t look like it’s ever been used — or even supposed to be used. The walls that aren’t windows are covered in a strange mix of completely bland pieces of modern art — blocky color, lines, a fucking mystery to Jesse — and then the occasional old film poster, equally bright in color. They feel like a small peek into a side of Saul that’s been just outside of his view, but which, now visible seems like something Jesse’s actually been seeing all along. Most of them are movies Jesse’s never heard of, but the dudes on them look vaguely familiar.

When he looks around to where Saul is standing nearby, Jesse is hit with a thrill running down his spine at the sight. Saul is leaning against the kitchen counter undoing his cufflinks and loosening his tie. That drab suit would look normal on most people, but it’s like a black hole on him, Jesse thinks, making Saul seem smaller than he is. Jesse is struck by the fact that he looks, well, different — in a way he can’t quite figure. At once more at ease and less. As Saul’s eyes linger on Jesse, his expression has shifted from its original discomfort. Now it’s easy and more open than usual, no dumb joke ready to fly off his tongue. Even his shoulders seem slighter, like he’s not worrying about holding himself up.

Jesse’s not sure what to do with that gaze on him — it’s a bit unnerving, like Saul’s seeing more than just Jesse, and Jesse’s not sure what that is. Jesse drops his eyes and wanders toward the dining table, which has been polished to such a perfect shine that he feels guilty touching it, but he does anyway, knowing that he’s gotten this far without getting tossed out on his ass. He turns his attention to the center of the table, where there’s a large vase.

“What’s with the bowl of balls, dude?” Jesse asks, grinning and grabbing a few of the wicker balls in his hands, holding them up with a quirked eyebrow.

Where a moment ago Saul had looked young and at ease, now he’s shifted like a fucking mirage. He looks up at Jesse from under his eyelashes — more sheepish than sensual — and now he looks older, like he’s weighed down by something unseen. But then he blinks, and he’s smirking at Jesse and moving forward toward him.

“Sentimental value,” he says quietly and holds out his hand. Jesse sets the balls in Saul’s hand, where he practically fucking fondles them before putting them back. Jesse feels a bit back on even ground now — innuendo is something he can handle.

“Sentimental about balls. Got it,” Jesse murmurs and hooks a finger into Saul’s belt loop and tugs him closer.

This is familiar territory, even if Jesse’s rarely had the opportunity to undo Saul’s buttons standing up, or even get things any further off than just open. Jesse can’t help that he’s rougher with this suit than usual. Something about it makes him itchy and desperate to get it out of his sight. He undoes the plain white buttons with more force, feeling the urge to tear fabric, and yanks too hard on Saul’s tie, causing the other man to stumble slightly, his surprised grunt swallowed when Jesse kisses him hard. Saul recovers and suddenly he’s giving back with equal force, the height and strength he has on Jesse making up for Jesse’s fervor. Jesse is vaguely aware of the sound of the zipper of his hoodie being undone and Saul’s sliding it from his shoulders, but getting it off would involve letting go of Saul’s tie, which Jesse’s untied and is now grasping at each end, using it to keep Saul’s mouth pressed firmly against his.

The vibration of his phone in his back pocket jolts through Jesse like an electric current and he jumps back, almost stumbling, but Saul catches his shoulder. Jesse’s breathing hard and instead of shedding his hoodie completely, he shrugs back into it, the extra weight a comfort as he reaches for his phone.

* * *

Saul’s head is spinning at the lost contact of Jesse’s rough hands and mouth on him, and it takes him a moment to realize why. Jesse is pulling his phone out of his pocket, and it’s vibrating insistently. There’s no contact name on the display, but they both know that number — better than they know each other’s or even their own.

The look of defeat on Jesse’s face as he moves to press ‘accept’ is enough for Saul to impulsively reach out and grab the phone from him. Jesse’s face shifts to one of panic and confusion.

“What the fuck, dude?” Jesse asks as he makes a swipe to get the phone back. Saul dodges and holds it out of his reach.

“I thought this was my free pass weekend,” Saul says, ignoring how petulant he sounds. “Walt’s at the bottom of the guest list.”

“He’s not gonna stop calling. You know how he is.”

Saul looks down at the phone, which has mercifully stopped ringing. He holds down the power button until the screen turns black. “You’re unavailable,” he says and hands the powered-off phone back to Jesse. “Call it work-life balance — something you desperately need some of, kid.”

Jesse puts his phone back in his pocket and turns on his heel. Saul realizes with a sinking feeling that he’s heading to the front door. _Fuck_. He scrambles after him. “Alright, Jesus, I shouldn’t have turned it off, okay? I’m sorry, just turn it back on…” Saul’s rambling, he knows it, but right now he’d do anything to reverse the image of Jesse walking away from him.

Jesse stops at the front door, where he opens it. But instead of stepping out and slamming it behind him, he is checking the locks — fiddling with the doorknob first, then the deadbolt, and finally, the chain on the inside. He tests the door again for good measure before turning around to look at Saul, who tries to school himself to not look completely desperate. Of course, it’s a lost cause, he realizes, as he’s standing in the middle of his own foyer, shirt hanging open, still half tucked into his pants, and his tie dangling from around his neck, and the feel of Jesse’s stubble still lingering around his lips.

“He doesn’t know where you live?”

“If there’s one rule in my line of work, it’s don’t give your clients your home address.”

“But I’m one of your clients.”

“Yeah, well there’s a sub-clausal paragraph in there somewhere about ‘except the ones you’re fucking.’ I can dig it up for you if you want.”

Now Jesse’s looking at him with a mix of exasperation and fondness — and that’s a look, Saul realizes as relief floods him, that he could get used to.

“No, he doesn’t know,” Saul says quietly, throwing the kid a bone, and reaching back out to grab at Jesse’s collar.

Then, as if the angels up above were laughing at him, he own phone rings in his pocket. Jesse leans back against the front door and lets out a gasping laugh that’s more helplessness than humor.

* * *

Jesse’s not sure who he was kidding when he made this stupid fucking plan. Why should today be any different than any other day. Since when had Mr. White ever taken a fucking day off where he actually didn’t do shit.

“Maybe you should just answer it,” Jesse says, already feeling miserable at the idea of spending the night in his own bed. “So he doesn’t, like, get suspicious.”

Saul flips open his phone, but instead of answering it he presses the reject call button, holding the power button down to turn it off before reaching into his pocket and also pulling out his bluetooth. “Why should he be suspicious? I have an alibi and you don’t need to explain your every move to him.” Saul sets them both on a small table in the entryway.

“Yeah, you try explaining that to him.” Jesse can already hear Walt’s voice, the harsh way he always says Jesse’s name, the aggravation that gets him so worked up he’s practically shaking, enough to make Jesse feel guilty, like it’s his fucking fault.

“Look, I know it doesn’t mean shit when he’s got the world’s biggest stick up his ass.”

Jesse laughs shakily and he knows it comes out sounding crazed. God, all he’d wanted was a fucking break from that shit, to test some new waters.

“Take a breath, kid,” Saul says. “I know this looks bad, but what good would come out of talking to him tonight?”

Jesse doesn’t even know how to answer that, and the look on his face must tell Saul exactly what he’s thinking because suddenly the lawyer is waving his hands in front of him.

“Okay, forget about that,” Saul says, and snaps his fingers. “Let’s just ask ourselves this important question instead: ‘What kind of takeout should we order?’ Simple enough, huh?”

Jesse rolls his eyes, but does take a deep breath. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, sets it on the table with Saul’s, and turns his back to them.

* * *

Jesse’s just sitting down on the coffee table the four boxes of pizza he’d ordered when Saul returns to the living room wearing the most ridiculous thing Jesse’s ever seen.

“Just when I didn’t think you could get any weirder, dude,” he says. Because it is fucking weird. Saul’s wearing a pair of black lounge pants and a ratty old t-shirt that looks like it’s been washed about a thousand times — and it has his own fucking face on it. A pretty decent (if Jesse’s being honest) artistic rendering of Saul’s face next to his godawful tagline in bright red and yellow, like a sleazier version of fucking Ronald McDonald.

Saul’s grinning at him, like it was his plan all along for Jesse to harangue him. “One of my less lucrative advertising ventures.”

“No shit.” Jesse can’t help the grin that’s overtaking his own face then, couldn’t suppress it if he wanted to.

Saul sinks down next to him on the sofa and reaches for the top box of pizza.

“What the fuck is this?” Saul asks as he lifts the lid. “Hawaiian, you’ve got to be kidding me. Of course that’s what you eat.”

“Fuck you, dude. There’s some boring ass square shit in there too if you can’t handle pineapple.”

Jesse leans in and grabs the largest slice of Hawaiian, topped with epic amounts of ham and pineapple, and folds it in half before lifting it to his mouth to take a bite. He pauses for a second before putting it in his mouth, looking at Saul, who hasn’t stopped staring at him since he grabbed his slice. He looks like he’s waiting for something, and Jesse’s not sure what — but when he shrugs it off and takes a bite, Saul practically groans, looking like he’s about to fucking lose it.

The cheese is scorching his tongue and Jesse’s doing everything he can to not let his eyes water, because then he’d have to break this fucking weird, hot staring contest they’ve started and come to terms with the fact that he’s getting hard over Saul getting hard over Jesse eating pizza. _Fucking what?_

Jesse swallows the bite and instead of taking another he sets it down on top of the box, and considers Saul. “If I’d known all it’d take to shut you up was eating pizza in front of you—”

He doesn’t get any further because Saul grabs him by the hoodie and Jesse practically topples into his lap. While he’s rearranging them a bit so he’s actually straddling Saul’s lap, Saul is roughly unzipping Jesse’s hoodie and letting it fall to the ground before immediately tugging at his t-shirt and running his hands across Jesse’s sides.

Jesse hides the shudder that runs up his spine by tilting forward and licking a stripe across Saul’s collarbone. He tugs at the already wrecked collar of Saul’s shirt, and sucks hard at the side of his neck, stopping only to grin as the suction makes Saul’s grasp on his waist tighten and his hips shift beneath him.

Saul is tugging him back by the t-shirt and Jesse lets him, sitting back against Saul’s bony knees.

“This is your weekend,” Jesse says, drinking in the sight of the slightly glazed look in Saul’s eyes, the way he’s looking at Jesse like he could solve the mysteries of the universe if he looked long enough. It makes Jesse’s pulse spike, but he ignores it in favor of asking, “What do you want?”

* * *

Saul can admit that his fascination with the sight of Jesse Pinkman eating is a bit out of the ordinary (what can he say? The kid has an amazing mouth), but the sight of Jesse straddling his thighs in the comfort of his own living room is more than Saul ever thought he’d have the chance to see. Outside of the dark, harsh shadows of empty parking garages Jesse looks less desperate, loses the feral gleam in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. Saul could look at him like this forever if it weren’t for the fact that he’s positively aching to see Jesse naked in the gloriousness of a well-lit room.

“Losing the shirt’s a good start,” Saul says, breathless, and Jesse doesn’t miss a beat before he’s snagging the too big shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor where it joins his equally massive hoodie.

Saul runs his hands down the planes of Jesse’s chest, over the snake tattoo, and he’s surprised for a moment by the bulk of him — that there’s large swathes of solid muscle beneath his skin, not just some fragile bird bones hidden under layers of fabric. It’s not that Saul hasn’t handled Jesse before, but desperate clutching in the dark leaves him with only impressions, like looking at a painting too closely, or missing the forest for the trees, if he’s feeling cliche.

Saul realizes that Jesse is looking at him strangely, brow furrowed like he’s not sure what Saul’s doing. Saul’s hands freeze where they’ve been roaming Jesse’s chest - okay, fine, he’s guilty of _caressing_.

Jesse grabs Saul’s hand where it’s halted and suddenly his pinky finger is enveloped in Jesse’s mouth and the kid is fucking tonguing at his pinky ring like knowing its shape and texture is the most important thing in the world. And Saul is fucking undone, can do nothing but stare desperately beneath hooded lids, his senses narrowing to nothing but that slick heat.

He flips them, then, twisting to let Jesse topple onto the sofa on his back, his finger somehow never leaving Jesse’s mouth as suddenly Jesse is beneath him, and he’s chest to chest, and hip to hip, feeling the entire length of Jesse’s thin frame, another new feeling that he could get used to.

The scrape of teeth against the pad of his finger is a small shock to his system, and it’s like his ears have popped and the sounds of the world are suddenly back, loud and insistent, and beneath him Jesse is breathing heavily and grinding up into him. His own cock is straining against boxers and sweatpants and the harsh rub from the denim of Jesse’s jeans is enough to send him grinding right back into him.

“Fuck this,” Jesse pants beneath him. His hands come between them and he’s flicking the button of his jeans, unzipping the fly and shoving them down and away, his feet kicking at the fabric. Saul barely notices because suddenly before him is an almost naked Jesse, dick straining against eggplant colored boxer briefs and Saul is practically salivating at the sight.

But before jumping into the main event he decides that, since this is his weekend, he will take his time — they have all weekend to explore, anyway — and he begins back at the top, sucking hard at Jesse’s collarbone and nipping at the thin skin there, tracing the outline of his ridiculous tattoo with his tongue until he reaches one pec and an irresistible nipple that’s just waiting for the gentle scrape of his teeth.

Beneath him Jesse bucks and shifts, knees splaying to frame Saul’s hips, and the thin layers of fabric now between them are almost too much for him to bear, but he soldiers on, intent in his exploration. He mouths at Jesse’s abdomen, ghosts over his ribs, and takes an intense satisfaction in trailing his tongue over the fur of his happy trail and the quaking of his muscles beneath sensitive skin.

“God fucking dammit,” Jesse practically whines above him, and Saul can’t help but pause there, looking up at him with a smirk he physically cannot contain. Because the sight of Jesse Pinkman beneath him — desperately clutching at the sofa cushions, dick straining insistently beneath his boxers — is a fucking dream. It’s something he has to savor, as he’s surely reached the pinnacle of his existence and there’s nowhere to go but cascading back down to crash among the turmoil that is their lives.

Jesse meets his eyes and then his hands are in Saul’s hair, an insistent scrape of nails at his scalp and he’s surging forward, mouth crashing into Jesse’s who pulls insistently at his lower lip with his teeth, and if Saul weren’t already dizzyingly hard, he’d be cutting glass at this shit.

And he can’t wait any longer. He dips his hands beneath Jesse’s waistband and pulls, sliding the fabric down his skinny legs, barely getting them past his knees before he has to stop and look at the sight of Jesse’s cock, newly freed. He’s struck again by how lucky he feels to be seeing this in full light. Not the hidden, clandestine handjobs beneath layers of fabric, and blowjobs swallowed down thoroughly, purely for practicality’s sake.

Now Saul wants to take his time with what he has before him. He dips his head, letting a sigh escape his lips over Jesse’s cock, which twitches again in anticipation. And Saul realizes that no, he does not want this happening for the first real time on his sofa like a couple of teenagers.

“I will fucking put it in your mouth if you’re just gonna stare at it like that, dude,” Jesse pants, a ragged edge to his voice that Saul hasn’t heard before.

Saul grins and holds up a hand. “What do you say to a change of scenery?”

Jesse looks at him like he’s nuts. Eyes his own dick like it’s about to weigh in on the matter, before looking back at Saul.  

“You know me,” Saul says. “Bad knees.”

Jesse rolls his eyes but makes to sit up. Saul sits back to let him and the sight of Jesse standing with that cock jutting out practically demanding his attention is enough for Saul to want to hustle to the bedroom. But before he can get far, Jesse’s stopping him.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “This has got to go.” He nods at Saul’s admittedly garish t-shirt and before Saul can comply, Jesse is peeling it off over his head and tugging it down his arms. Instead of pulling it off past his wrists, he brings Saul’s wrists together and twists the t-shirt to bind them in front of him before leading Saul by the wrists into the bedroom.

Once inside, Jesse barely looks around, eyes zoning in on the bed in the center of the room, where he drags Saul. Jesse pushes at his shoulders and Saul lands on the bed, scooting his way back to give them as much space to work as his king size allows.

“You sure don’t skimp, bedwise,” Jesse says, moving to kneel over him with his hands on his hips as he surveys the bedroom.

“I know where my priorities lie,” Saul quips back. The memory foam pillowtop and pillows were a bigger investment than he’d usually make, but lying here staring up at a naked Jesse, feeling like he’s reclining on a cloud heading straight to the heavens, makes it all seem worth it.

Jesse climbs further onto the bed, where he straddles Saul’s hips and lets Saul’s growing hard on rub torturously against his ass. Rather than leaving Saul’s hands tied like he thought Jesse might, the kid deftly untangles the ruined t-shirt and releases Saul’s hands, which he immediately moves to frame Jesse’s hips.

The kid leans forward, a sharp gleam in his eye that Saul’s brain is slow to pick up on means _time for payback_ , before Jesse sprawls out even further on top of him, ass grinding against Saul’s prick and mouth latching onto Saul’s collarbone, where he sucks and nips eagerly, practically demanding the skin to bruise on the spot before he moves on to another spot, leaving Saul breathless beneath him.

And this, too, Saul thinks, is something new. Quick fucks in his office didn’t leave much room for drawing things out. Once they were up, so to speak, it was on, and there was no such thing as a goal beyond the finish line and avoiding Francesca’s glares on the way out.

Saul lets his eyes dip closed, willing himself to calm down enough so that the moment Jesse eventually touches him, he doesn’t go off like a sad high school science fair rocket. And he’s glad that that he’s steeled himself, because the moment comes sooner than he’d thought, as suddenly he feels Jesse shifting back down his body and hooking his fingers into the waistband of his lounge pants, pulling them down first. He pauses when they’re about halfway down Saul’s thighs and Saul looks down at him to see Jesse raising an eyebrow.

“You seriously wore magenta boxers to a funeral, dude?”

“Had to spice that suit up somehow,” Saul breathes, and his breath hitches as Jesse wastes no more time talking and instead reaches for the waistband of the boxers and pulls them down with his pants, this time all the way down to his ankles, where Saul kicks them off.

Saul’s almost immediately enveloped in the heat of Jesse’s mouth — like the sudden intoxication of the feeling of his finger being sucked into Jesse’s mouth, but about ten times as intense and all the better for the way Jesse hums softly around him, eyes flashing with amusement as Saul is suddenly speechless.

“This whole new not talking thing,” Jesse murmurs when he pulls off, and takes a hand to Saul’s balls, which only seems to pull all the words and thoughts from Saul’s head, leaving him with nothing but a faint buzzing noise that reverberates down his spine at Jesse’s touches. “It’s a good look on you.”

Jesse’s grin is sharp and a little coy, and Saul is more than happy to be at his mercy for the evening. This is exactly what he wants.

* * *

Jesse’s barely lucid when he hears the soft shuffling sound of Saul sitting up, leaving the bed, and walking away. From the sound of his footsteps receding, he’s headed toward the kitchen. Jesse’s itching for a cigarette but something keeps him lying there, in a ridiculously comfortable bed, surrounded by the scent of Saul — his soap, shampoo, aftershave, or maybe it’s just _him_ , Jesse’s not sure.

He fights the urge to get up, throw his clothes on, and hit the road — sticking around goes against every instinct he has. Buy lying here, he feels strangely safe and it’s so unexpected, Jesse has to rub at his eyes to make sure he’s actually awake. He takes a mental inventory to figure out what’s different.

He notes the sensitive patches of skin on his neck and chest that are on their way to spectacular hickies, because let’s be real — when he’s not talking a mile a minute, Saul makes some pretty fucking good use of his mouth. Jesse can practically still feel the imprint of Saul’s firm grasp of his hips as he’d held on and bucked up into him as Jesse had ridden him — their first time fucking face to face. It’s something Jesse could get used to, the way Saul’s eyes glaze over and his breath catches on a groan before he comes, the way he’d curled up behind Jesse afterwards, tongue worrying at the sensitive skin behind his ear as he’d grasped Jesse’s still-hard dick and worked him with languid enthusiasm, teeth scraping lightly on Jesse’s jaw just as Jesse had lost it.

The faint sound of sliding glass tells Jesse that Saul’s headed out to the small balcony off the dining room that Jesse had noticed earlier in the evening. Jesse sits up and looks around the bedroom. He realizes that in their haste to get things going earlier, he hadn’t paid any mind to the room beyond the bed. Saul’s bedroom is simply decorated and lacking the slight personal touches of the living room except for the dresser along one wall. The dresser is laid out with various containers and dishes for Saul’s wide variety of suit accessories. Jesse spots a shallow dish with assorted cufflinks, a clear thick plastic box filled with tie pins and clips, and Jesse runs a finger over the mother of pearl one he’d taken notice of the other night. Jesse can’t help but chuckle at the bowl in the back that’s practically overflowing with Saul’s little lapel ribbons and pins.

Jesse fights the impulse to snoop a bit, and he uses the excuse of hunting for something to wear, because wrapping a fucking sheet around his waist is not really his style. He wanders over to the closet and, not hearing any sounds from the rest of the apartment, eases the door open. He’s not disappointed to find hanger after hanger of bright as fuck, burn-your-eyes-off dress shirts. To one side he sees a metal rack that slides out slightly and, yes it’s the jackpot of about two dozen neatly hung ties. Jesse’s not sure he’s seen them all, but he notices toward the front one of his favorites — a fucking gold and purple one with some whack flower design. He grins to himself and runs his fingers over it, slowly realizing that while he loves to rag on the guy for his clothing, what he’s feeling here is something approaching fondness for Saul’s lack of fucks to give.

Jesse steps back from the closet, and something on the floor catches his eye — it’s soft and gray and subtle in a way that makes Jesse wonder if it even belongs to Saul. He pulls it out of the shadows to reveal a worn, old sweatshirt, and bingo — just what he’s looking for.

* * *

Leaving Jesse dozing with his head in the pillows, Saul, clad in a ratty old bathrobe leftover from Jimmy’s early days of thrift store shopping, quietly pads back out down the hall, through the kitchen, where he swipes his cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and out onto the small balcony. He slides the door closed behind him and lets the cool, dry air wash over him, the sounds of downtown bustling below barely a whisper on the wind.

As he lights the cigarette and takes a long drag, waking up his foggy, sated brain, Saul tries to untangle the slew of things that have happened over the course of less than twenty-four hours.

His skin is still tingling from the feel of Jesse all around him, from the moment he’d pushed Saul down on the bed, hands in front of him, still tangled in that fucking t-shirt. The kid had looked at him with a predatory smirk that still sent shivers down Saul’s spine, and it was then that he’d realized how good a little confidence looked on Jesse. He couldn’t say for sure, but Saul thought that it was in that moment — when rather than laughing like he usually would, he’d kept his mouth shut and simply watched Jesse climb on top of him — that Jesse truly felt at ease with him here. Not just because they were fucking, which was familiar territory for them, but because he could take some control. The kid may have prefaced this little weekend tete-a-tete as being for Saul’s benefit, but he knew that if either of them were going to enjoy themselves, Jesse needed to call some shots.

Saul was more than willing to let him — the feel of Jesse’s surprisingly strong hands on his hips, pushing him into the mattress as Jesse took him in his mouth, first feather light and teasing, enough for Saul to scrape his nails through Jesse’s short hair, looking for purchase he wouldn’t find.

Thinking back, the look in Jesse’s eyes at that moment — eager, intoxicated, but most of all trusting — combined with the feel of Jesse’s skin beneath his fingers, his mouth around his cock, and even the bed beneath his ass, everything about that moment came into sharp, grounding clarity, like it was one he should hold onto.

Floors beneath him, the sharp sound of a police siren wails past, its red and blue lights casting ghoulish shadows across the buildings as it careens down Central and takes a sharp left onto Broadway. Saul can’t help the sharp prick of anxiety that starts at his shoulder blades and oozes down his arms to leave his fingers feeling numb with adrenaline. He takes a long, slow drag to ease his nerves.

Suddenly he’s struck by just how difficult it is for him to wrap his head around the notion of Jesse and Kim even existing in the same plane — like they’re from alternate dimensions and he’s straddling the fissure. Sometimes it’s easier for Saul to think of things that way. Keep things tidy and separate. It’s one of the reasons his office is where it is — the opposite corner of Albuquerque from HHM and equally as far from Chuck’s house. Or, well, where Chuck had lived, he thinks, and his stomach sinks unexpectedly at the thought, at that shift in his reality, however distant. He realizes he doesn’t know where Kim’s living these days.

The sound of the glass door sliding against its track rouses him from his thoughts, and there’s Jesse, standing in his boxers in the doorway, arms crossed protectively over his chest. He realizes he has a piece of fabric clutched in his hand.

“You mind?” Jesse asks, and Saul’s stomach flops over at the sight of his _University of American Samoa_ sweatshirt, which must have been buried at the bottom of his dresser. He wracks his brain to figure out if there’s anything else of importance Jesse may have come across in his digging. “I didn’t really pack a bag or anything.”

“Sharing is caring,” Saul spouts, and refrains from rolling his own eyes at the lame response, because suddenly he’s feeling on shaky grounds again. Jesse tugs the sweatshirt on over his head and the fit is surprisingly good - loose but not like he’s drowning in it, a far cry from his usual swathes of hoodie fabric.

He’s standing there looking at Saul expectantly, and Saul’s not quite sure how to read the situation, so he offers up a cigarette, which Jesse takes and lights off of the lighter Saul holds out for him.

Saul leans against the balcony railing, eyeing Jesse standing there, who now looks like he’s winding up to say something difficult. For a moment, Saul has the sinking feeling the kid’s about to bail. Why shouldn’t he? They’ve had their fun, done the deed — this is how things usually go between them, minus the whole being in a private, inconspicuous space part.

“So, uh,” Jesse stumbles, and Saul braces himself. “How was the…?”

Saul blinks, mind still catching up to the fact that Jesse isn’t blowing him off — that he’s actually asking him a question. That he’s actually asking him about the _funeral_. Saul’s chest feels tight and there’s a dull ache at his temple forming from the dissonance of holding two lives in his head at the same time, from letting them overlap in ways that he’s avoided for so long.

“I ever tell you I grew up outside Chicago?” He asks, knowing Jesse’s not a fan of non-sequiturs, but feeling around for a steady foothold. Jesse just raises an eyebrow like Saul expected. “Yeah, I didn’t make it out this way ‘til I was a little older than you.”

Jesse taps the ash off his cigarette over the balcony railing and turns to Saul with a grin. “To be honest, dude, I just kinda pictured you stepping right out of my TV, fully formed.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually progeny to Lady Justice,” Saul jokes with a chuckle as Jesse rolls his eyes. The kid is more perceptive than he looks, and now here he is, looking up at Saul through his eyelashes, wearing Jimmy’s old sweatshirt, looking more at ease than Saul’s ever seen him. He’s struck by the thought that this is an image he could get used to seeing. He swallows hard around the wave of longing for an impossible pipe dream.

“My brother, Chuck, god rest his tortured soul, was a ball buster. Kinda reminds me of our mutual friend,” Saul waves his hand vaguely, as if Walt is just part of the city, everywhere around them. “Huge stick up his ass, radiated disapproval twenty-four/seven.”

“Sounds like a prick.”

“We never saw eye to eye,” Saul says, dropping his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out with more force than necessary. “If you can believe it, I used to bust my ass down at the courthouse doing PD work — grueling, shit pay, hell on earth. Chuck would always say, y’know, this shit comes around, it’ll all be worth it in the end. Well, what do you know? After a while, he was right. It did work. I land this killer case — a multi-state class action lawsuit, the works.”

As his thoughts drift back all those years ago, Saul lets his gaze fall over the city below, where the streets are all but empty and a hushed silence is falling over everything.

“What happened?” Jesse asks, suddenly at his elbow, staring out over the city blocks alongside him. Saul likes the feeling of them standing hip to hip, just sharing space.

“It was so big we had to partner up,” Saul continues, and the memory of HHM leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “It was looking so good.  Maybe even partner track. And then, _wham_ ” — Saul claps his hands together and the sound seems to echo around them, off the sides of the buildings — “there Chuck was, just in time to stop me. _Save me_ , I’m sure he’d have said. Because oh, no, there was never any room for Jimmy McGill at the top of the mountain.”

Saul stops speaking suddenly, closing his mouth with a click of his teeth, ears ringing and pulse pounding in his chest. It’s been years since he’s spoken that name out loud, and even after hearing Kim call him that all afternoon, it was never his intent to give it to Jesse. He’s not sure what’s come over him — nothing good can come out of confessionals between them, not when it can all be used against them at the drop of a hat, against their will. But the unreality of the night, the hushed cocoon Saul feels wrapped in, with Jesse’s full attention on him, it makes every needy whim of his leak out like water through a rusty faucet.

Hearing Saul talk about his past enthralls Jesse — it’s like finally getting the tricky little pieces of a puzzle he’s left half finished. He’d heard the name McGill tossed around a couple times by Mr. White and a few cops down at APD, but he’d never really thought about what that really meant for Saul. Names aside, Saul is Saul — Jesse doesn’t really care what he used to call himself.

Saul’s sagging under the full force of a self-loathing that Jesse’s only ever seen him bear once or twice before, when he’d found Saul at the bottom of a bottle after a particularly bad day. He drops his own cigarette butt to the concrete and grinds it with his heel before turning to lean out over the balcony again, letting his gaze wander over the almost empty streets below. Jesse’s not sure what time it is, but it’s late enough that only the diviest bars still have any significant crowd.

“When I was a kid,” Jesse says, turning to look at Saul, who’s still looking miserable. If Saul wants to play the fucked up family game, then Jesse has plenty to add, plus some of his own self-loathing to boot, if it’ll make him feel better. “I guess it was high school or whatever. I was convinced my brother was adopted.”

That gets Saul’s attention, and his expression shifts to one of curiosity. “Yeah, I mean Jake, like, plays the piano and goes to soccer practice and shit — and he’s actually pretty fucking good at it, too. I totally thought my parents must have realized their genes were fucked up, and decided to, like, upgrade to something better the second time around.” Jesse hasn’t seen his family in months, but it seems more like years. Some days he’s not sure they would recognize him, because, hell: some days he doesn’t recognize himself.

When Jesse looks up, Saul’s expression is sad, but it doesn’t look like pity. Jesse’s seen enough of that directed at him to know the look, the tilt of the eyebrows and frown that wants to be a reassuring smile. This looks more like Saul’s thinking about his own shit, and that’s the opposite of what Jesse’d been trying to do with his little story.

A gust of dry, cool wind blows — and this high up it’s enough to tug at the sweatshirt Jesse’s wearing. He realizes that his toes have gone pretty numb and the hairs on his legs are standing on end. He steps closer to Saul and sinks his hands into the plush lapels of his bathrobe, which Jesse only now notices is a navy blue with shiny gold stars embroidered onto it.

Saul’s eyes seem to clear with the contact, like he’s only now realizing that Jesse’s standing there in front of him. His hands come up to Jesse’s jaw, and he runs his thumbs along Jesse’s stubble, his eyes tracing each feature of Jesse’s face like he’s memorizing it, before kissing him almost tenderly, and with the same attention to detail. His tongue mapping the inside of Jesse’s mouth, which would be creepy if it weren’t Saul and if it didn’t feel strangely final.

Jesse pulls back enough to look Saul in the face, and the other man looks more himself than he had a moment before, more familiar. Jesse grins at him and says, “I think I need more pizza.”

Saul rolls his eyes. “Sure, you keep calling that shit ‘pizza,’ kid.” Jesse just knocks Saul’s shoulder with his fist before sliding the glass door open and heading back inside, Saul following close behind.

 


	2. Saturday

Saul’s pouring them each a cup of strong coffee when there’s a knock at the front door. Saul pauses mid-pour while his mind races through the possibilities. They hadn’t ordered any takeout since the mass amounts of pizza the night before, his neighbors are not the type to stop by for a chat, and all Saul can think is that they’ve both been too naive. He’s careful to walk lightly across the hardwood, though from the sounds of it Jesse’s still got the shower going.

He steels himself and looks through the peephole. It’s not Walt, but it’s not much better. Before the figure can raise a hand and knock again, Saul’s unlocking the door and opening it to reveal the dead-eyed stare of Mike Ehrmantraut.

“What are you doing here?” Saul asks him, cutting to the chase because this is _not good_. He mentally pats himself on the back for having the decency to be wearing his lounge pants under his bathrobe, which he now makes sure is belted securely under Mike’s scrutiny.

“Your phone’s turned off.” _Fuck._

“Y’know, that’s for a reason, buddy,” Saul says, projecting as much casual annoyance as he can to hide the spike in his pulse. “And it sure as hell isn’t so you’ll pay me a personal visit.”

Mike looks away for a moment, one of his patented wind-up moves before he cuts straight through Saul’s chatter.

“When’s the last time you saw Jesse Pinkman?”

“Pinkman? Last week sometime, I guess.”

“You guess.”

Saul’s pulse spikes further if that’s possible and he’s sure Mike can see it fluttering against his neck. Then he’s even more sure Mike’s seeing one of several fresh hickies provided by none other than the aforementioned Pinkman.

“What the hell’s this about, Mike? Call the kid yourself — I sure as hell ain’t his keeper.”

Before Saul can do anything to stop him, Mike’s moving forward — and it throws Saul off his guard enough that he gets past him before Saul can block his way.

Saul scrambles back in front of Mike, backpedaling and blocking his way further, but Mike makes no move to go beyond the foyer.

“Walter hasn’t heard from him in over twelve hours. Wouldn’t normally raise any concerns, but the kid’s phone is dead.”

“So, he passed out and forgot to charge it.”

“He’s not at home — I checked.”

“He has friends — whatsit, those two numbskulls...”

Mike just shakes his head.

“Listen, I got nothing for you,” Saul says. “But if I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.” Saul raises his arm to Mike’s shoulder, casually but pointedly steering him back toward the door. Mike doesn’t budge.

“You got company, Saul?”

Saul opens his mouth to deny it when to his horror he hears, muffled through the bedroom door, “Yo, get your ass in here before the water goes cold.”

Mike moves damned quick for a senior citizen, and his grip on Saul’s arm is like a vice as he steers them both straight through the kitchen and out onto the balcony in seconds. Saul’s half convinced he’s about to be thrown over the railing when suddenly Mike’s letting go of him and closing the glass door behind him without a sound.

Before Saul can take a breath, though, Mike’s back invading his space, looking at him with that thousand yard stare that does more than any yelled threat could ever manage.

Saul’s not new to this, though — he’s known Mike for years and his intimidation tactics, while still fucking terrifying, don’t completely shake Saul.

“What are _you_ _doing_ , Saul,” Mike says, and Saul knows it’s not a question.

“What does it look like?” Saul’s entire body is thrumming with adrenaline and his grip on the balcony railing is tightening. Mike’s stare is turning vicious and Saul knows he’s least predictable when he’s this quiet. Not that the man is ever truly predictable.

Mike continues to stare at him.

“Look,” Saul says, holding up his hands in front of him in a gesture of vague apology, but really as a ploy to get some space between them. “Just tell Walt the kid broke his phone. For Christ’s sake, it’s been twelve hours, they’re not cooking this weekend — he can give it a fucking rest.”

Mike doesn’t stop staring at him.

“If that’s all you needed,” Saul says, and he’s surprised when Mike lets him step past him and slide open the door. He steps into the kitchen, trying to look even remotely commanding in his pajamas.

From the balcony doorway Mike says, “There is no way this can end well for either of you.”

Saul turns around to look at him again. “What, is this your shovel talk?”

“Walter White is a time bomb, just waiting for the right moment to blow. Do you really need me to spell this out for you?”

“He’s not gonna find out,” comes Jesse’s voice to Saul’s right, and he’s standing next to the sofa in the living room, hair still damp, barefoot, and clad in a pair of Saul’s old basketball shorts and his UAS sweatshirt, which Jesse seems to have claimed for himself. Saul’s stomach flips at the sight of him looking at once both at ease and defiant. There’s no hint of the terrified kid from the night before who could barely get up the balls to turn off his cell phone. “You’re not gonna say anything. Not to anyone.”

“Jesse,” Mike says, and the look he gives Jesse is somewhat softer, which is practically pleading coming from Mike. “This is your deathwish, not mine.”

“Then fucking tell me you won’t rat. I need you to say the words, Mike.”

Mike’s expression shifts back to his usual state of annoyed detachment and Saul knows he’s about to split. “I won’t rat,” he says plainly and makes his way for the front door.

Before he can leave, Jesse follows him to the door. “So what are you gonna tell Mr. White?”

“I’m not telling him anything. This is your problem. I haven’t seen you all weekend.” And with that he opens the door and leaves without another word. Jesse’s left standing there staring at the closed door, body hunched, looking deflated as his defiance leaves him.

* * *

Jesse’s willing his hands to stop shaking as the door closes behind Mike. He feels the urge to run, to break something, to do anything to stop the feeling of his life crumbling around him again and again.

When he’d turned off the shower and come out to hear muffled voices on the balcony, he’d been surprised by his own calm — like a fucking zen state had overcome him and he’d felt prepared to stand his ground. Jesse knew that feeling was dangerous, that just because you felt invincible for a fucking second didn’t mean shit when you’re staring down the wrong end of a pistol.

Something about the last... hell, less than twenty-four hours, really — the late night confessionals and quiet moments on their own time, not stolen between cooks — was shifting this thing they had in Jesse’s head. He wasn’t fucking stupid enough to expect it to last or to ever be more than what it was right then, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t stand there and fight for it while he could.

Back in the kitchen, Saul’s muttering to himself, and he’s pouring his coffee down the kitchen sink to replace it with scotch from a bottle that seems to have come out of nowhere. Jesse steps back into the kitchen and picks up his coffee before Saul can dump or spike it. Jesse’s feeling clear-headed and wants to stay that way — one of them needs to, at least.

Saul keeps shooting him odd glances, strangely silent, though Jesse can tell it’s only because he hasn’t quite figured out how to say what he’s thinking. Jesse just stands there, sipping at his cooled coffee, and watches Saul shuffling across the tile floor in pajama bottoms and that old fucking robe, a manic energy radiating off of him in the way the fingers of his right hand twitch around his mug and his left hand clenches and unclenches in a fist at his side. There’s something different about him here, with the bravado and smooth talking gone, that strangely makes him look even tougher and more jaded than Jesse usually sees him — like a dog that’s been cornered and will rip your throat out before letting you stomp on him.

Jesse steps closer and intercepts Saul’s pacing with a hand at the tie of his robe. “Hey,” he says softly, and Saul looks at him, surprised and wild-eyed, like he hadn’t seen him move closer, like he’d been miles away figuring out their next move. “Take a breath, man.”

Saul’s vision seems to clear and a grin ghosts across his face at his own words being echoed back at him from the day before. Jesse just rolls his eyes and wonders how much more pathetic they could be, standing around giving empty words of comfort to each other in a situation they’re both single-handedly responsible for. Because this is some Lifetime drama bullshit they’ve created here, and when you add meth-cooking to the mix, it’s almost enough to make it laughable if it couldn’t so easily get them both killed.

Everything about this is so fucking absurd that Jesse can’t help the little giggle that escapes his mouth, and then he can’t help the next one or the next, and now he’s actually cracking up and Saul is looking at him like he’s broken something and he’s not quite sure what.

When Jesse surfaces for breath, practically gasping, he looks at Saul and simply says. “I’m gonna make us some pancakes, bitch.”

* * *

Saul’s nerves are still raw from Mike practically sending him over his balcony railing, so he is content to sit at his dining table nursing liberal amounts of scotch at ten in the morning, watching the sun shine through the the large window over the sink, gleaming off the stainless steel appliances, while Jesse moves expertly around his kitchen — true to his word — gathering supplies to make pancakes. The kid moves with a strange silence and fluidity, and when he opens the wrong cabinet in his search for one ingredient or another, he makes it look intentional, like he’s done this a thousand times. Saul can’t help but picture Jesse cooking with Walt, where he no doubt picked up the habit of moving confidently and swiftly to avoid Walt’s constantly critical eye. When the kid catches him staring, Jesse grins softly, “ I make some bomb pancakes — I used to make ‘em all the time for my Aunt Ginny when she got sick.”

Saul nods vaguely, but can’t help himself from continuing to stare. He’d noticed it earlier, too, but he still can’t get over the sight of Jesse dressed in Saul’s old clothes, moving around his kitchen with the sun shining warm at his back, and somehow looking completely unafraid of the shit that’s about to rain down on them. Maybe he’s saving face for Saul’s sake, but if he is then that only makes Saul even more fascinated, more compelled to watch him, to understand the surprising reinforcements the kid’s hiding beneath his wiry frame.

Before he knows it, Jesse’s setting down a stack of thick pancakes on the dining table, passing Saul a plate, and producing a tub of butter and some maple syrup Saul didn’t even know he had. The kid sits across the table from him, looking over at Saul through his eyelashes, a cautiously expectant look eeking out through the glimmer in his eyes and the way he worries at his lower lip.

Saul would do anything to keep that look on Jesse’s face, so he grabs a fork and places a pancake on his plate, cutting into it eagerly. He’s practically giddy when he’s met with the taste of the best fucking pancake he’s ever tasted.

“Holy shit,” Saul says around a mouthful, and across the table Jesse is pumping his fist and grinning at him like he’s just won a medal.

“Yeah bitch, I told you they were the shit!” Jesse grabs his own fork and stabs a pancake for himself.

“Did you lace these with something?”

“Fuck you, dude,” he grins and takes a satisfied bite, which sends Saul’s insides into a fluttery tailspin. “Nah, it’s my secret ingredient.”

“Crack cocaine?”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “Nutmeg.”

Saul rolls his eyes right back, but takes another bite, and now that he’s looking for it he can taste the subtle spice in the background. “Not too shabby, kid.”

The sustained light in Jesse’s eyes at the praise makes Saul wonder how many times Walt has ever deigned to give the kid a genuine compliment. Because chem wizard or not, Saul’s positive their continued success wouldn’t be possible without Jesse’s personal brand of judgment and his natural instincts. Either way, Saul would be complimenting Jesse even if he’d whipped these out of the freezer aisle, if only to keep him looking at him the way he is.

* * *

Breakfast turns into a lazy sprawl on Saul’s sectional sofa and Jesse is still thrumming with giddy energy from the look on Saul’s face when he’d tasted his pancakes. In the back of his mind, Jesse knows there’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, but he can’t figure it out at the moment because Saul is sucking at his hipbone in a way that makes Jesse’s toes curl.

Something about the turn of the day’s events has left Jesse feeling more relaxed than it should. Mike showing up to crash their party should rank high on his list of nightmares, but instead Jesse feels like they dodged a bullet, like they’re in the clear and can now breathe easy — at least for the weekend. And if breathing easy involves Saul putting his tongue to good use like this, then Jesse is more than happy to indulge.

“Fucking tease,” he breathes, raking his fingers through Saul’s hair, probably a touch too hard by the gasp Saul puffs out against his skin, but Jesse’s brain is half offline as it is.

Saul looks up at him from where he’s laid out on his stomach between Jesse’s legs. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmurs with a fucking wide eyed bullshit look on his face, like he’s not inches away from Jesse’s cock, which twitches insistently at every scrape of Saul’s teeth against the thin skin of his hip. “Did you need something?”

Jesse drops his head into the pillow and groans impatiently, but that only seems to make things worse. Saul’s now mouthing at his abdomen and every time he chuckles his breath ghosts across Jesse’s skin and Jesse tenses and wiggles beneath him.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to stop squirming,” Saul says, voice serious, but when Jesse looks down at him again, there’s a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fuck, why do I even let you do this to me?”

“Something about a free pass weekend keeps coming to mind.”

“I’m already fucking regretting that.”

Saul raises his eyebrows at Jesse, a wounded look crossing his face, and Jesse is too far gone to tell if he’s playing it up or not. So he yanks at Saul’s robe and pulls him up into a hard kiss that he turns soft once the expression melts from Saul’s face. “You’re the only dude whose idea of a free pass involves this much time staring at my dick.”

“I’m simply appreciative of the aesthetic.”

Jesse snorts and distracts himself from his aching balls by mouthing along the underside of Saul’s jaw where his pulse is fluttering. A low groan vibrates beneath Jesse’s lips as he drags his teeth across Saul’s skin. _Who’s frustrated now, bitch?_

This seems to jumpstart Saul because suddenly he’s pulling away and moving back down the sofa where he runs his hands along the undersides of Jesse’s thighs and gently presses Jesse’s knees up. Jesse wraps his hands around his shins and lets his eyelids droop as fucking finally, Saul wraps a hand around the base of Jesse’s cock and licks a slow, sloppy stripe up the underside before taking him down whole. Jesse’s brain whites out, or blacks out, or something — he’s fucking seeing stars as he holds back a thready whine.

Saul’s not wasting any time now, Jesse realizes, as he feels a finger pressing against his ass. He squirms into it and Saul takes the hint and gets to work.

“You better not waste my fucking time staring at my ass now, dude,” Jesse snipes after a few moments and before he can say anything else, he feels Saul sit back before coming back and lining himself up, and suddenly Jesse can’t remember what he was bitching about.

Jesse is kind of amazed at the turn that their fucking has taken over the last couple days. As if suddenly, with more space to move around, they actually don’t need it, and instead use the light and the privacy to wrap themselves around each other even closer than before. But at the same time, things aren’t so frantic. Saul’s eyes linger on Jesse longer, watching how each move he makes brings some expression bubbling to Jesse’s face. Jesse relishes in the skin to skin contact, and Saul’s hands on him make him feel more real, like he’s taking up space he’d never been fully convinced was there until now.

Above him Saul is looking at him in a way that would make Jesse’s insides flip if they weren’t already such a mess, and it makes him wonder what his own expression looks like, as he feels almost physically incapable of unlocking his eyes from Saul’s while the other man gets him off with one deft hand. The other is on the cushion next to Jesse’s head, fist clenching as he slowly eases out of Jesse before driving back in.

Jesse’s fucking close and he knows the uneven, glazed look that slowly takes over Saul’s face means that he is too. He moves a hand to tangle his fingers with Saul’s on the sofa and the strong grip grounds him enough to noticed that Saul is saying his name over and over under his breath, until he can’t seem to contain it— and when Saul’s hips stutter, it’s with a moan of “Fuck, Jesse.”

Jesse realizes then that in all their screwing, Saul has never said his name like this, like it’s a fucking experience, and it’s enough to send him over the edge, coming so hard his eyes water.  

* * *

“Alright, if you put them in a modern setting, who’d you want in your corner: Wile E. Coyote or the Roadrunner?”

They’re curled up on the sofa, Jesse with a cigarette in one hand and Saul making his way through a slice of pizza. On Saul’s flatscreen, they’ve found some Saturday morning (or, well hell, it’s afternoon, going on evening even) cartoons, and Saul is feeling perfectly content for the first time since he can remember.

Jesse sits up, raising an eyebrow, and Saul’s disappointed to lose the warmth of Jesse’s shoulder in his side. “Uh, dude,” Jesse says slowly, like Saul is particularly dim. “You’ve seen this before, right? Everyone knows the Coyote loses every time.”

“Yeah, but think about it this way: GPS trackers, artificial intelligence, drones — he could totally get the upperhand today.”

“But the Roadrunner is just, like, invincible — that’s the whole point!”

“No one’s invincible. Everyone’s got a weakness.”

“The dude doesn’t say a word in the entire show and he still wins.”

“With the appropriate counsel, Wile E. Coyote could totally improve his skills.”

Jesse is quiet for a moment before a slow stupid grin crosses his face. “Appropriate counsel, huh?”

“He has quite the potential.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ dork.”

Saul grins back, and he’d be happy to be labeled as Big Fuckin’ Dork for the rest of his life if Jesse’s the one saying it.

Jesse’s grin fades and he puts out his cigarette in the ashtray before slumping down against the arm of the sofa and putting his feet in Saul’s lap. He’s silent for a few moments, but Saul can see the gears turning in his head, the way he’s worrying at his lower lip and tapping his fingers against his legs. Finally, Jesse says, “You ever think about, like, what you would do if you could just, like, skip town today?”

Saul can see the real emotion churning in Jesse as he thinks about leaving, what sort of chain reaction that might cause, and who would be caught in the crossfire. Saul’s run plenty of times in his life, and the one image that tends to come back to him time and again is one of chlorine pools, leathery tans, expensive drinks, and fresh marks to work. Maybe he’s making it too easy on himself going back to the same old story, but it _is_ easy — or at least easier than figuring out something new.

“I’d find myself a secluded little island — resort town. Lots of sun and sand, but none of this desert shit. Clear blue waters, lots of palm trees where you can practically just pluck yourself a coconut — they’re everywhere. Then I’d find myself a good bar: expensive but not too fancy. The people there are wealthy, but they like to hang around with the laymen to make them feel more relatable. And then… Then I’d get to work.”

“Work?”

“Oh yeah, I’d start by scoping the place out — low key, just a quiet guy who doesn’t want any trouble. You find the regulars: who’s only there for the day, the weekend, who has a condo and stays all summer, that type of thing. You make nice with the long-timers, as they’ll come in handy later, just waiting in the wings for you to circle back to them, like good little sheep. No, but for now you have your daytrippers, your weekenders who are looking for a good time, for a little risk, and they’re like clay in your hand. Maybe start with a rare coin bit — well, maybe mix it up with a necklace to get the wives involved. They can be the real game changers for these short cons.”

He pauses and realizes he’s been talking a mile a minute, sinking into the fantasy like a worn in pair of shoes, and Jesse is sitting there staring at him, enthralled, like he’s discovered the secrets of the universe and they’re sitting right in front of him. Saul isn’t sure why but he’s suddenly blushing like a fucking teenager and ducking his head sheepishly, away from Jesse’s sharp gaze. He shrugs. “That’s what I’d do, I guess. Old habits...”

“Wait, yo, it doesn’t end like that, though,” Jesse says, sitting up with his elbows on his knees like a kid at storytime. “What about the long-timers?”

Saul looks at him and suddenly he’s _really_ thinking about what he’d do — oh fuck him, stop denying it — what _they’d_ do if they just bailed and got the hell out of dodge that day. Because something about the day they’ve had, the direct threat leveled at them by the appearance of Mike fucking Ehrmantraut in Saul’s home, it’s making him see Jesse differently. Like this is something he’d fight for, that he wants to fight for.

What would he do if they could just run that day, road stretched out before them? Maybe they could get to that island eventually. But if they left _today_? The only way he can imagine them going is north — as far away from the Mexican border as they can get. The image blurs then, and he can’t quite tell what happens next. All that’s clear to him is Jesse in the passenger seat beside him. Maybe they could get a convertible and drive with the top down. He thinks Jesse might like that, the feel of the wind in his face, breathing in the fresh air.

“Well,” Saul says slowly, and he can’t help the small smile that crosses his lips at the fantasy, whichever way it could potentially go. He places his hands in his lap, on top of Jesse’s ankles, and lets his fingers brush across the hair peppering the tops of Jesse’s feet. The strange intimacy they’ve been fostering for the past couple months has bloomed into something insistent and impossible to ignore in the less than twenty four hours they’ve been here together, and Saul will be damned if he doesn’t hold onto it as long as it can possibly last. “Well, the long-timers, they’re a bit trickier. For them, I’d most definitely need a partner...”

Jesse’s eyes light up and for a moment Saul can pretend that all their dreams will come true.


	3. Sunday

When Jesse opens his eyes, the sun is still a weak light, barely making its way through the curtains. For the moment, everything is silent and his life is a blank canvas. Beside him, he hears the soft sound of Saul’s deep even breathing and he imagines what it would be like to do this every day, to wake up to this guy, this strangely sentimental loud mouth dork of a conman lawyer. 

It doesn’t make much sense on paper because Jesse knows he’s far from what anyone would consider a “catch.” Sure he’s a pretty face, but what else does he have to offer anyone besides a bunch of shit they didn’t ask for and don’t deserve? No, on paper this shit doesn’t sell — but what they have doesn’t belong on paper, and it’s only through the sheer collision course that is the lives they live that makes it anything but straight-up suicide. And it’s not suicide, Jesse thinks. In fact, it’s the only thing in the nerve wracking grind of his life that makes it tolerable.

He closes his eyes, letting the dark shift of his thoughts ebb back into the shadows for a little bit longer, letting all the questions of the week ahead slide away for the moment.

He turns onto his side where Saul is still asleep on his back, tucked against his memory foam pillow, hair completely crazy, and bottom lip slightly swollen from where Jesse may have gotten a bit too enthusiastic the night before.

Jesse wiggles closer to him, laying his hand against Saul’s bare chest, feeling his heartbeat faintly under his skin. It’s not enough, so he turns even further and lets his head fall to Saul’s chest, ear to skin, where now he can really hear the  _ thump, thump  _ of blood pumping steadily, a small confirmation of reality in the dreamscape of their weekend.

Above him, Saul yawns and Jesse feels the rise of his chest as Saul’s lungs expand. He tilts his head to meet his eyes and Saul’s looking down at him, expression still dopey with sleep. “Hey, kid,” Saul says, voice gravelly and quiet with a crooked smile, and the sound rumbles through his chest and into Jesse.

Jesse smiles back. “Hey,” he says and wraps his arms around Saul’s waist.

* * *

As Sunday morning slowly trickles into Sunday afternoon and early evening, the languid, sedate haze that’s covered everything since Mike’s sudden appearance and equally sudden departure is beginning to lift. Jesse’s almost reached the end of his cigarettes and he’s ashing his second to last in Saul’s ashtray next to the bed, saving the last one so he doesn’t run out before he leaves. The dregs of their four pizzas sit in an uneven pile on the kitchen counter and Jesse knows that all that’s left is a half eaten slice of Hawaiian that Saul abandoned and each and every one of Jesse’s crusts.

Next to him Saul reaches out and steals his cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing it out through his nose before looking over at Jesse from where he’s half laying on his side, propped up on his elbow. The casual intimacy of the gesture sends a warm tingle up Jesse’s spine and he forces himself to not actually roll his eyes — because what the fuck is happening to him? Ever since the day before, they’ve shared long, quiet looks that say more than Saul’s usual rambling chatter ever does.

In the light of day — or at least, the light of the weekend ending, and life moving on outside of this fucking little fantasy land — their stolen moments feel strangely more meaningful and less at the same time. It’s like slowly waking from a dream where everything made sense a minute ago, and now you can barely grasp the a thread of the plot, and it’s just on the tip of your tongue, but the harder you try to figure it out, the faster it just drains away.

This thing they have, whatever it is, it  _ does _ feel big — bigger than them in a way that’s not romantic or idealistic, but scary and infused with too much reality. There just are too many eyes on them, whispers up the ladder that could easily get them killed or arrested or thrown in jail.

“So what’s the plan for this week,” Saul asks next to him, and Jesse can tell he’s figured out the train of thought Jesse’s own mind has taken. He idly wonders what his expression looks like when his thought shift to work.

“Flying to Houston tomorrow,” Jesse tells him. He doesn’t really want to think about that trip. “Renting a truck, driving back with the methylamine from Madrigal. Should be back late Tuesday if I only stop for gas.”

“Ah, Texas,” Saul says, and he’s avoiding Jesse’s eyes, which Jesse’s come to know means he’s anxious. “I think I have a bolo tie around here somewhere, if you wanna blend in.”

“It’s just an in and out,” Jesse tells him quietly, eyeing him until Saul relents and looks at him. The weight of adding their work relationship back into the mix of the weekend, and the new secret softness they’ve discovered, is almost enough to smother out any of the good. That’s enough to make Jesse’s blood boil. “Don’t worry about it.”

Saul nods vaguely and then sits up, scrambling around the disaster of bed sheets for his boxers, a hilarious lime green that Jesse swears glows in the dark, which Saul puts on as he stands. “So I’ve been thinking about this whole Walt thing. How we can ease the inevitable blow-up at your absence.”

“Dude, I don’t even wanna know what sorts of voicemails he’s been leaving either one of us.”

“Well, I have an idea,” Saul tells him, holding up a hand before turning to the dresser against the wall. He opens a sock drawer and pulls down a small-ish black box, which he hands to Jesse.

“Y’know, this weekend has been killer, but I don’t think I can make that kind of commitment yet, dude.” Jesse can’t help but think back to yesterday’s conversation about bailing out to a fucking desert island, spending their days in the sun running small-time cons. It sounded too good to be true and Jesse’s not stupid enough to believe that they’ll actually get out of this unscathed. But god, if he doesn’t want to fucking try.

Saul rolls his eyes. “Just open it,” he says — so Jesse does. Inside the box is a watch. Like, a  _ really nice _ watch.

“I’m not following.”

“It was a gift from an overzealous client. Not quite my style.” Jesse just raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s not my style to get mugged. It’s a TAG Heuer Monaco — it’s worth, like, six grand. I’m not leaving it dangling on my wrist for the piranhas at the office.”

“Okay, expensive watch, gotcha. I still don’t get what I’m supposed to do with it.”

“Give it to him.”

“To Mr. White?”

“It’s his birthday, right? Call it a present for him — and an insurance policy for us,” Saul says. “He’ll recognize that it’s an expensive watch, feel his shriveled black heart warm at your thoughtful gesture of care, that you spent your own hard-earned money on his worthless carcass, and then you can float right in and apologize for not being around this weekend. He’ll barely remember what all the fuss was about.”

It’s not a half-bad idea, Jesse thinks. Stroking Mr. White’s ego is always a solid distraction, making him feel important. “Alright, yeah,” he says. “If you’re okay giving it up?”

Saul waves him off, so Jesse nods and tosses the watch onto the bed, rising to his feet, mind already off of Mr. White. Instead Jesse lets his eyes wander down the length of Saul, who’s still standing there by the dresser, looking pleased with himself in his neon green boxers. He desperately doesn’t want this weekend to end and the longer he can put off leaving the better.

Jesse walks toward the bedroom door, out into the hallway, and into the bathroom, where he turns the taps on as hot as they can go. When he wanders back into the bedroom, Saul’s still standing where he left him, looking at the watch with a small frown on his face.

“You coming or what?” Jesse asks, hitching his finger over his shoulder toward the door and the now steaming shower.

Saul looks up at him with a smirk and practically skips out of the room on Jesse’s heels.

* * *

The enclosed dark space of the shower, the way Jesse’s gasps echo around them, heavy in the humid air: for a moment all Saul can think is that they’re back in the caddy, where everything is frantic, quick touches in the dark, the world moving around them at lightspeed. The thought gives Saul pause as he’s mapping every inch of Jesse’s bare back with his tongue and he shudders, letting the scorching water run in rivulets over his face, letting his hair fall into his eyes, and just grasping at Jesse’s waist, like he might just disappear into a mist if he lets go.

The fragile, tenuous state of things is enough for Saul to want to hold onto what little hope they have, because they can spin fantasy tales all weekend and they’ll still be where they’re at come Monday morning. The thought of losing this completely is enough to send Saul into a blind panic, and what was supposed to be a hot morning fuck is turning into raw neediness.

Jesse reaches back with one hand, leaving the other where it’s planted in front of him against the shower wall supporting them both, and curls his fingers into Saul’s hair, pushing back into Saul languidly and just letting his head fall onto Saul’s shoulder. Saul reaches out and gently pulls Jesse’s other hand away from the wall, twines their fingers together and just holds Jesse’s weight against him until they’re both breathing in so much steam they’ll either suffocate or simply drift away into the ether.

Saul lets one hand slide down Jesse’s chest and abdomen, and Jesse lets out a strangled cry when Saul takes his cock in hand and slowly begins working him. With each stroke, Jesse’s breath becomes more ragged, and when Saul eases up, unsure if he’s getting mixed signals, Jesse turns his head into Saul’s neck and gasps into his ear, “Saul… please, just… don’t stop.”

And to Saul it feels like  _ this is it _ . Their train is pulling into the station and suddenly every stray thought and idea he’s had about Jesse over the past months comes to the forefront of his mind and  _ god, he doesn’t want to lose this _ .

Without a word, he lets go and gently pushes Jesse against the shower wall before lowering himself to his knees. They protest like hell, but Saul barely notices as he digs his fingers into Jesse’s hips and ass and carefully takes his cock in his mouth, savoring the weight of it on his tongue, the way Jesse’s hands immediately fly to his hair, where they latch on and don’t let go.

Above him, Jesse gasps and Saul looks up at him, where his face looks completely wrecked and he can’t tell if the kid’s crying or if it’s just the water rolling down his cheeks. Either way, Saul spends the next five minutes — ten maybe, the world just seems to stop, so he’s not sure — doing everything he can to get that look off of Jesse’s face.

* * *

Jesse’s sitting on the balcony with a cigarette when Saul comes out to join him. Saul’s heart sinks when he realizes that Jesse is dressed in his own clothes again — the big black hoodie and t-shirt he arrived in two days ago. He’d gotten so used to the sight of Jesse in his beat to shit UAS sweatshirt that seeing him dressed this way somehow seems like he’s looking back into a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

Saul’s not naive enough to think that this weekend could magically transform their lives into ones where they’re buying a dog together or picking out drapes, but things have shifted rapidly nonetheless. If Saul’s been reading Jesse as well as he’d like to think, they’ve both started seeing this thing differently, with more weight, and of course, with the danger that comes with exposing their necks like this.

“I been thinking,” Jesse says into the stillness, looking over to Saul from where he’s sitting, where he’s been staring out over the Albuquerque evening. “We got a couple more months of cooks with this barrel coming from Madrigal. I’m thinkin after that, with my cut of the money, I’ll just pull out, and get the hell outta dodge.”

Saul swallows, mouth suddenly dry at the thought of losing Jesse after just a couple more months, even if he knows in his bones that it’s the best move for him. He opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t know what, and ends up just staring at Jesse like a fish out of water.

“I mean, yeah, I know,” Jesse says. “There’s a risk in waiting, but you got your extractor guy, right? He could get us some new names and shit. We could buy some junker and just blow this joint before we get too hot. Hell, before Mr. White even knows what hit him.”

Saul’s brain doesn’t get past the words  _ us  _ and  _ we  _ before he’s sighing and laughing in relief, dizzy from the mental whiplash. Saul wants more than anything to say  _ yes, this is the best idea I’ve ever heard _ ,  _ let’s do this _ , but something gives him pause. “You sure you wanna do this, kid? Leave everything behind? Your family’s still here, y’know.”

Jesse sets his cigarette in the ashtray and stands up to face Saul. He steps close and runs his fingers along Saul’s sides before settling them at his hips. “I’m not leaving anything behind,” Jesse says, and his eyes are clear and confident. “And hell yeah, I wanna do this.  _ We _ can do this. We can start over and it can be that easy.”

Jesse kisses him then, and it’s so much more tender than any kiss they’ve shared, sweet and almost tentative, like a new beginning. Saul can’t help the picture his brain paints of the next couple months. They can keep sneaking around a while longer — Mike won’t help them, but he won’t rat and that’s the second best thing. Saul can get Jesse a copy of his key and the kid can start spending his downtime here. No more phones off to avoid any more suspicion from Walt, and maybe — just maybe — they’re in the clear.

Saul kisses Jesse back with more enthusiasm, deepening it and wrapping his hands around the back of Jesse’s neck. He vaguely recalls wondering what hugging Jesse Pinkman would be like, and he doesn’t have to wonder anymore. Jesse sinks into him and his hands at Saul’s hips tighten for a moment before he’s wrapping his arms around Saul and fisting his hands in the back of his shirt. Jesse smiles against his mouth and Saul can’t help the chuckle that bubbles out of him.

  
Yeah, Saul thinks. Everything’s going to be just fine.


End file.
